


What If?

by AllINeedIsALittleFelix



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Paris, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Cliche, M/M, Music, Paris (City), Poetry, Sherlock Plays the Violin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-03
Updated: 2018-07-04
Packaged: 2019-06-04 18:50:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15153398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AllINeedIsALittleFelix/pseuds/AllINeedIsALittleFelix
Summary: AU where Sherlock and John meet in Paris. John's POV.Author chooses not to elaborate for sake of plot.





	1. Chapter 1

I remember everything about that day. The last rays of the Sun were dancing all around us, different shades of yellow colouring the city. There was a gentle breeze and just a touch of magic. A foreign place, a dream-like land with not a soul whom I knew. That's how a holiday should be. Only when you cut away real-life, you allow yourself to dream, to fantasize, to accept magic. Anyway, that was when I met him. There was something about him, something most people saw but never chose to investigate. His eyes met mine and I knew nothing would ever be the same.

But, I think I'm getting ahead of myself. For once in my life, let me not.

I'm John H. Watson, M.D., Late of the Army Medical Department, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers , a humble servant to the Queen. Atleast, that's who I was.

I was shot in the shoulder in Afghanistan and thus deported. I was given some money, but what use was money to a broken man? A man who understood that life was without purpose and the other seven billion are  _shown_ their purpose in life by a select few to further their own interests. We kill dreams for money, kill love for lust. I had lost all my faith in humanity when I returned. I lived in my sister's place for a few days, doing nothing but merely existing. My sister was a smart woman. She seemed to understand what was happening without me saying a word. She was also a great woman, she never once offered sympathy or tried to cajole me into thinking that the world was a better place. I loved her for that. And it was that love which finally gave into her requests. I found myself with a suitcase in hand and a ticket to Paris in my pocket and a glimmer in her eye.

"If you are going down, might as well stay in Paris first" she smiled, asking me to hope.

I formally kissed her on the cheek and left. She visits us every weekend now.

There were so many ways our meeting could have never occurred. It still gives me the chills to think about them. I asked him about this many times and the thought haunts him too. He understands probability, he understands how easily we could have gone our separate ways. When you meet a new person, it happens due to a series of events, a chain all leading up to that one big moment. And that one turn you took on the street, that one construction site that forces you to change direction, that one reason why you went out (I went to buy milk), that random but sudden feeling in your gut to play the violin (or maybe that's just because you don't want your brother to know your first song). My point is I could have very easily not met him in my life. I could be doing something entirely differently. And, he is the reason why I believe our life is a continuous motion of little wheels, all of them turning to prepare you for this. All the suffering you had to go through, all the tears shed, broken faith, shards of your heart trying to heal – they're all for this one big moment.

He scoffs at the idea though, asking me not to fret over "could be's" and "what ifs". But it does make good tea-time conversation.

There he was. Playing away on a violin. Almost lazily, but anyone who really saw him could at once understand that the song meant a lot to him. He later told me that it was called  _Heal_ and that he burned away the sheet music because it made him  _feel._ He can be crazy like that sometimes.I sometimes heard the opening notes, muffled, coming from the living room, always abruptly stopped. And as the years passed by, he slowly forgot about the song completely. I don't blame him. He has a folder full of his own music now.

Five years ago, I met him in a dream. And I never woke up.


	2. Dinner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Previous chapter - Chainsmokers.

Right, so  _Heal._ A gaggle of girls and a few other people surrounded him, all of them who seemed to feel the song as much as I did. They heard the music, they closed their eyes – was it possible that this song meant as much as to them as it did for me? For me, the music talked about loss. He played the song three times in total and the more I heard it, the more it made sense. He paused after the third time, looking at his audience. He smiled at all of us, asking how we felt. The girls replied in French, using beautiful and complex words. Words that flowed like magic but whose meaning I did not know. It kind of made sense though. How else would you describe something you can never hope to completely understand? He thanked them politely. He then looked at me. It was a brief look, but he seemed  _interested._ He looked at me the way you would look at someone after you asked them to marry you. With hope, with anticipation. I was slightly scared. I had no words for him.

He said something in French which was followed by a series of sighs and protests. Apparently, he told them he was going to play it one last time.

He played it a final time but something felt very off. It felt messy, like excessive seasoning on an otherwise perfect dish. Music with too much sugar on top. A song to impress; not express.

There was thunderous applause at the end. These girls who seemed to be resonate alongside of me now suddenly seemed foreign. Was this addition only pleasurable to the French?

After several  _merci_ 's and a bow to his audience, he collected the money in a small bag. I put in a pound note, although I had some francs with me. He looked at the note and gave me a tiny smile, and then whispered in my ear: "Will you stay for a bit?"

I nodded.

So, I stared at him openly while he packed away his things, a few girls helping him. He quickly shook them off, and took me to a nearby restaurant.

"So, what do you think?" he asked bluntly. He did not mince words, this one. And on some deep level, I already knew this about him.

"I...I think it was good. Very good. Excellent in fact." I took a gulp of water, not knowing what to do.

"That's what they all say" he said, in a bored tone. This guy sure had a lot of ego. I smiled.

"Well, your fourth song was complete shite" I replied in his blunt tone.

This earned a surprised look for him and for one second, only one second, I saw his face morphed into satisfaction. The next, however, he was composed once more.

"Surely, you are stupider than you look. That was the one that the crowd loved. You clearly have no taste in music. My apologies, I should have known" he said sharply.

I got up angrily and left. I thought he  _understood._ For someone to have played that music...Maybe it was a fluke. Maybe he was playing some other person's music. That must be it.

He immediately followed me.

"What is your bloody problem?" he snarled.

"I do not pretend to be a music critique. I have killed people, I have been shot. I had my heart broken by people whom I loved all my life. I have seen more pain than you can ever bloody imagine, pretty French boy. When you played that song, it spoke to me of those things. Things that I refuse to let go but should. I thought I could  _heal_  but now thanks to you, that bubble burst. You faker! So, tell me, why in God's name should I  _not_ be mad at you?"

"It was just a song!"

"It was something pure. And, you ruined it, a mere thirty minutes later. Are you happy now?" I yelled at him. I felt like a fool. The song had meant a lot to me and it was clear that he didn't care about the song. It made me angry. The music deserved some respect; maybe not from the audience but at least the player!

He laughed. He had the  _audacity_ to laugh after all that he had done.

"Calm down, Doctor! Come in, dinner is being served." he said cheekily, already going back to the restaurant, not bothering to look back. Somehow, both of us knew I would be going back.

Something struck me while I was pulling my chair to sit. I looked at him, who was in turn gazing lazily at me, his posture relaxed.

"How do you know I'm a doctor?"

He smirked in response, choosing to take a sip of wine instead. The smirk felt extremely familiar – nostalgia hit me in waves, but  _why?_

"You don't drink wine." I furrowed my eye-brows. How did I know that?

"No, I do not." He conceded. "Although, you are worth making an exception for."

A slight smile. Clink of cutlery while we ate. This man was confusing and yet. I felt like I knew him all my life.

"Do I know you?" the words spilled out before I could stop them.

"You were right. The music was utter shite the fourth time."

"Then why?"

He turned to me, his expression told me that he was about to rant. He did not disappoint.

"Music is about telling a story. Those French girls keep falling all over me, just because I have money or power or whatever. No one actually  _listens!_ That is what is wrong with all of us! We are so desperate to be heard that we are just waiting for our turn in a conversation!" He stopped abruptly, pouting.

"I do not have time for philosophy," he said, smiling sheepishly, "But you did listen to me. Maybe there is hope after all."

He raised his wine glass as if to toast me. I smiled – he did  _understand_.

"So, who composed it? What's it called? I would really like to buy it"

He looked me straight in the eye. A deep stare, as if trying to decipher what I was thinking. I stared back into his. Big mistake.

_Tears falling from those ocean blue eyes, a hand raised..._

"I did," he said, looking away from me, "I haven't been able to decide what to call it for a week now, but I think I have finally found a name."

"Oh."

He gestured to the waiter for the cheque. We both headed out in silence, each of us busy in our own thoughts. I really wanted to ask him his name but I didn't. There was something beautiful about the evening, something surreal; I did not want to ruin it with reality. We walked through the garden, admiring the flowers until we reached the spot he played earlier. He stopped walking and turned around to look at me. Again, those deep blue eyes looked at me searchingly, as if they were expecting something.

"This is where we part, Doctor." he said, a small sad smile on his face. He started walking away with his violin, clearly going home.

"Wait!"

He turned slowly.

"Yes?"

"What is your name?"

A philosophical smile.

"William. You can call me William." He kept walking away again.

"Will you play again tomorrow?" I yelled at his retreating figure.

"No!" he yelled back. I could hear his smile. He got on a cab and I saw the car slowly receding away in the distance.

I sat on the bench he was sitting on earlier, looking all around me. I wondered if I would ever see him again. I sat there for a long time, watching the light, the flowers, the Tower – I truly felt what could only be described in one word.

_Enchanté._

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are always appreciated.


End file.
